


A Mess of Contradictions

by Draco_sollicitus



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A Girl Needs to Figure Some Things Out, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arya Stark POV, F/M, Fix-It, Gendrya - Freeform, Happy Ending, Let's just pretend that didn't happen, Post Season 8 Episode 4, and references to sex, rated t for cursing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-26 23:59:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18727516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Draco_sollicitus/pseuds/Draco_sollicitus
Summary: Arya Stark has plenty of time to think while taking the road south.If only Sandor Clegane would let her bloody think --- since when does he care about anyone besides himself?(post 8x04 -- The Hound grills Arya on her decisions while they ride towards King's Landing)





	A Mess of Contradictions

**Author's Note:**

> _Notes_
> 
>  
> 
> I physically needed to write this.
> 
> This tries to explain some of Arya's thought process during the scene between her and Gendry; it takes place after the events of **episode 4 of Season 8** so don't read if you don't want to be spoiled!
> 
> Basically, after I was done watching tonight's ep/mourning all the NONSENSE that happened, I tried to analyze how Arya was thinking/what she was feeling, and then...........fix it so there's a happy ending, because D&D really did a whole lot of people wrong in that episode, so.
> 
>  
> 
>  **Warnings**  
>  Cursing  
> References to sex  
> Mild angst

“He’s in love with you, you know.”

Arya glances over at the Hound, who doesn’t give any indication that he just spoke; he merely continues to post awkwardly in his saddle, hunched over and as miserable as the day he was born.

“Who?” She doesn’t play stupid on purpose usually, but this isn’t something she wants to talk about with Sandor _fucking_ Clegane.

“Who?” he mimics, snorting ungainfully. “Gendry Waters, that’s who. Oh, I’m sorry -- that would be Gendry _Baratheon_ , Lord of Storm’s End. He’s in love with you.”

Arya doesn’t even nod in acknowledgement, but she does stare stonily ahead as though the path before them has caused her great harm. She really, very much does not want to talk about this with Sandor Clegane.

“Does that interest you in the slightest? Hm? That the blacksmith bastard is fucking in love with you?”

She blinks once, an ache in her throat that she tells herself she’s already forgotten.

“Or were you just fucking him?”

Needle’s drawn before he can breathe another ale-stained word; she catches the tip at his neck, and the Hound cusses under his breath.

“That’s enough.” Arya glares at him, one hand still on the reins, and then sheathes her sword again, her eyebrows seemingly permanently lowered.

“You Stark girls are fuckin’ crazy,” the Hound growls, and Arya does acknowledge that with a tilt of her head.

“It comes in handy.”

She thinks it’s done, dead and buried, but a quarter of an hour later, Clegane clears his damn, scarred throat and speaks again.

“He was lookin’ for you.”

“He found me,” Arya snaps, hands tightening on the reins. “Gods, is this punishment for me annoying you? Because I don’t need to talk anymore. I’m fine with silence now.”

“I bet you are.” The Hound’s horse shifts towards her slightly, so she knows he’s looking at her.

“Eyes front.” She fights the urge to flip her hair over her shoulder; that girl isn’t here right now. “Honestly.”

“Doesn’t it bother you that -- the battle’s over, the day is won, drink is flowin’ and pretty girls are swarming around him -- he goes lookin’ for you, of all people?”

“The battle isn’t over,” Arya reminds him, her voice sharper than Valyrian steel. “And he shouldn’t have looked for me. Gendry Baratheon can do better than me.”

“Bullshit,” the Hound snorts again.

“He can do better than a girl who was never meant to be a lady.” Arya’s throat feels tight again, and she wants to blame it on the stress of the last few days, but she knows it isn’t that. “He’s a lord now, and a lord needs a lady.”

“Bull _shit._ ” The Hound draws up his horse and stops moving entirely.

Arya keeps riding.

She can hear him scoff behind her, and a second later, he resumes riding.

“Who the fuck told you that load of shit?”

“He did.”

“What? Did that blow to the head knock your brains clear out?” The Hound has the temerity to lean over and shove her horse slightly with his boot, and Arya seriously considers putting him at the top of her list. “What was left of ‘em, at least?”

“Fuck off.”

“You’re telling me Gendry Waters, the boy who was willing to die for you when you were a pissant child, goes runnin’ to you after the worst battle of all time, and you tell him to, what, piss off? And you’re tellin’ me he thinks you aren’t a lady?”

“That’s not what I said,” Arya contests, and everything inside of her is _hot,_ and everything that she voices is cold, colder than the air around the Godswood when she took a running leap, but the Hound won’t shut up, he won’t, and it hurts too much to look at.

“You’re telling me that boy, who ignored a feast, drink, and girls with prettier faces than yours, and probably better tits, to go looking for you in the night, that boy thinks you aren’t a lady now that he’s a lord?”

“He does,” Arya whispers, trying not to squeeze her horse by accident as her muscles lock in protest.

“Come off it,” The Hound makes an angry noise. “He didn’t say that--”

“No.” Arya shakes her head. “He thinks I _am_ a lady. And I’m not."

The sound of hooves fills the air after her declaration, and she swears she can hear snow settling.

Then:

“I’m sorry.” The Hound cuts her horse off with his own, and she scoffs, goes for her weapon, but he grabs the bridle of her horse and keeps it still. “Then what the _fuck_ are you?”

“I’m no one,” Arya snaps.

“No. You’re Arya Stark.” The Hound speaks maddeningly calm, and her palm itches to slap it off her face, but that would be too much -- she might shatter from the impact.

“I’m no one. I’m not a lady, and I’m not a hero, and I’m _not_ the kind of girl who marries and starts having children--”

“Are you sayin’ he proposed?” The Hound laughs, sharp and mean. “The boy really is fucking crazy--”

“Let go of me,” Arya smacks at his hand, but it only makes him tighten his grip. She seethes but settles on her saddle, thinking of how long it will take to grab Needle and run this asshole through once and for all. “You don’t understand, it’s not my life, I’m not a lady!”

“You’re right, I don’t fucking understand. Why are you doin’ this to yourself?” The Hound roars at her, louder than he has in years, and she stiffens. “You’re spitting happiness in the face, little wolf. I don’t understand why you’re throwin’ away someone’s love with both your hands.”

One of her hands is on her sword, a mean little voice inside her hisses, one of her hands will always be on her sword, and the other cannot be reserved for holding hands with soft-hearted boys with rough hands who think she’s beautiful.

She has been pushed, and kicked, and hunted, and broken beyond all recognition, and Gendry Waters Baratheon has the _nerve_ to look at her and tell her she’s beautiful. She isn’t. She can’t be. There isn’t anything left of her, after all.

“He doesn’t love me,” Arya says, her voice rising despite all her years of training. “He can’t. He doesn’t know me.”

“Because you won’t let him,” The Hound releases her bridle with a sneer. “You know what? Ride on without me. I’m not riding into battle with a coward.”

“I am _not_ a coward--”

“Right, because you’re fuckin’ _no one_ \--”

“You don’t understand,” the panic rises in her, stabbing at her worse than the Waif, “You can’t understand, the things I did, the things I still have to do, there’s not - I can’t be what he needs.”

“Who gives a fucking shit about _needs_? Huh? The boy knows what he wants!”

She scoffs and grips her reins, forcing her spine to remain straight and full of steel.

“ _The things you have to do_ ,” The Hound mutters, almost to himself, glaring up at the sky and squaring his jaw. “I suppose you’re talkin’ about your list.”

“I am.” Arya sniffs,and tells herself it’s the cold that has her nose running, even though the cold hasn’t bothered her since she was a child at Catelyn Stark’s knee. “Cersei Lannister is alive, and once she’s dead, whatever is left of me will be too.”

“Bullshit.” The Hound waves a hand but moves his horse out of the way.

Arya doesn’t ride on. Anger keeps her in place, that old flare of Stark temper her father swore she got from Lyanna.

“I will cross off Cersei Lannister’s name from that list,” Arya insists, even though part of her whispers that this is childish. “She deserves to die, and I will see it through.”

“She _will_ die.” Clegane shakes his head and studies her. “But if you’re no one, then why do you care who does it?”

She feels her lip tremble, but she refuses to acknowledge it.

“Say it.”

He’s a hateful bastard.

“ _Say it._ Who are you?”

“I’m a Stark,” she spits out, and her horse takes a tentative step forward, sensing her desire to be away from this conversation.

“Louder, girl.”

“I’m a Stark!”

“And if you’re a Stark, why are you running away from a fight?”

“I’m running towards the fight, you idiot,” Arya seethes, gesturing down the road.

“Not that fight.” The Hound pulls his horse next to hers, so he’s facing backwards, back the way they came. She wants to bite at his hand when he reaches out and pushes her chin until she’s looking over her shoulder. “That one.”

“There’s no fight left at Winterfell,” Arya points out mulishly. “I saw to that.”

“Own the victory or not, little wolf, you don’t get to reject the title of hero and then lean on it in the next second.”

“I hate you.”

“Good.” The Hound squints at her as she turns around to scowl at him. “Then there really is a piece of you left.”

Arya doesn’t say anything, but she tries to still herself, her mind, her body, her soul, the way she learned, the way she trained. It doesn’t work.

When the Hound speaks again, it’s softer than she’s ever heard it; and she hates that, too.

“Running towards something you aren’t afraid of isn’t bravery. Not when the thing you fear most is behind you”

“I don’t care about brave.”

“You used to.” The Hound leans in to frown at her, and she resists the temptation to flick him in the head. “You used to want to be a knight.”

“And I’m not afraid of Gendry,” Arya protests. “I’m not, it’s only…”

_Fear of what he wants; fear of what he promises; fear of what he can give me._

“You wrote that list a lifetime ago,” the Hound whispers. “And the reason that woman is on that list is for just as strong a reason as your sister would have for killing her, or your brothers. And where are they, hm? Not on their way to settle a personal vendetta. They’re following the people they love. Your brother follows the Dragon Queen; your sister stays for her people. Who do you love, Arya Stark?”

“A girl loves no one,” Arya says, clinging to the last shred of armor she possesses.

“If you’re only a girl, if you’re really no one -- then why fight at all?” The Hound shakes his head and moves forward, swinging his horse around when he has the room. “Trust me, little wolf. Fighting means shit when there’s no one to fight for.”

“What do you recommend,” Arya snips. “Just turn around and go running back there to tell him I made a mistake, that I do love him, that I don’t want to get married yet, not when I still have things to do?”

“Fuck if I know,” the Hound retorts. “What the fuck do you want to do? Suffer with a miserable old shit who refused happiness every time it’s been offered to his miserable little shit self? Or go and see what life is like outside of killing?”

When she doesn’t answer, he trots forward with a heavy sigh. He doesn’t look back, not until the bend in the road up ahead.

He waits there, where the path disappears behind a hill, and looks back at her. Arya seethes for a long moment, all her anger back at the surface, the anger she’s kept cold and distant as the winter for as long as she can remember. Now it’s fire-hot, right from the forge, and she hates it and loves it and wants it to be gone, even as she pulls it around her like a shroud.

“I still fucking hate you!” She screams at the Hound.

“I fucking hate you too, you frightful little beast!” The Hound roars back.

He rides on.

Arya turns her horse around and rides, hard, for Winterfell.

The sun is setting to her left, hours later, when a rider on the horizon comes into view. She squints at it, her heart in her throat, and she hates herself for the ember of hope that burns in her chest, hates how that spreads into a fire that warms her head to toe when her suspicion is confirmed.

She and the other rider draw up a few feet away from each other, and she studies him, well aware that her lips are parted, well aware that there are tears in her eyes, well aware that by not dashing them away, she’s giving everything away.

“Gendry, I--”

“You’re not meant to be a lady,” he says, his voice broken in the purple light of dusk. “I know that. I -- I was caught up in what the Dragon Queen said, and I forgot myself, and I’m sorry. You’re not meant to be a lady because you’re so much more than a lady” -- she dismounts from her horse and walks towards him; he slides off and continues speaking, his face flushed and hands clearly nervous as they fidget at his side, “But I meant what I said, I don’t give a shit about any of it if you’re not there. And you don’t have to be my lady, but fuck it, Arya Stark, if you’re not my family than I don’t know what else to do.”

His voice breaks the worst on the last word, but she’s already pulling him in, burying her face in his chest, as she tugs him into a fierce embrace on the road south.

“I’m not the same as I was,” Arya whispers into his sweat-stained shirt, his heart a wild reel beneath her cheek. “I never will be.”

“None of us will.” Gendry cups the back of her head with his hand and rests his chin on her hair. “I think that’s part of the moving on.”

“Part of me wishes I kept riding,” Arya admits, and he nods, and she notices his arms - the ones capable of wielding tools in the forge for hours on end - are trembling around her, as though this embrace weighs more than any iron, any steel, any piece of dragon glass. “There’s still so much I thought I’d do.”

“Then I’ll do it with you,” Gendry promises, and she hesitates, resisting, resisting, and then -- she ever so slightly feels the coldness that rooted inside her start to melt.

The winter has come, yes, but it’s already gone, and it’s time for her to thaw.

“I’ll do it all with you,” Gendry continues, as though he’s unaware of the stirring inside her, the one she tried to fight, but never really could, not when she saw him in Winterfell, when she saw him come home. “I’ll fight the queen, I’ll protect the North, I’ll follow you anywhere. I had a chance to once, and I said no, and - and I hope you understand I couldn’t let that happen again--”

“I love you,” Arya whispers, and it feels like at the same time, she’s saying to the Many-Faced God, _My name is Arya Stark._ “I love you, and that scares me.”

“It scares me too.” Gendry presses a kiss into her hair. “But we’ll face that together, too, if you’d like.”

“I ... would like that,” Arya pulls back and smiles up at him, blinking tears out of her eyes, tears that she fought for, tears she won’t be ashamed of. Heroes cry, ladies cry, anyone can cry -- so Arya can cry. “I really would.”

He kisses her slowly this time, moving as though giving her time to pull away, and one last fleeting part of her considers it, but it’s gone when his warm lips press to hers, chapped and a little rough and perfect.

Arya kisses Gendry, and says to the Many-Faced God, _this is the life I choose; this is my name._

_I am Arya Stark, Protector of the North, and I am no one’s lady._

_But I am Gendry’s._

She has always been a mess of contradictions, after all; what’s one more?

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!!!!!!!!
> 
>  
> 
> As I said to my friend over chat: "Huh, it's so great how the entire series ended after Gendry proposed to Arya! Wild!" 
> 
>  
> 
> (Also, for the record, I feel like out of all of the betrayal, heartache, and downright character assassination that happened in the episode, Gendrya left on a more positive note than most, no matter how much it sucks to see our sweet Gendry in pain, because, _ouch_ I still have faith in them, more than aaaaaanyoneeee else in the show!)


End file.
